Overlandish Part 1: Water, Water Everywhere

We’re staggering as we reach Marions Lookout. It’s the first day of a planned winter trip through Tasmania’s Overland Track, so that’s not surprising. We’ve all been here before, so we're expecting this to be our hardest day, with its almost immediate 450 metre elevation gain. Also our packs are at their heaviest, our bodies at their unfittest, and it’s winter.

[What Marions Lookout can be like on a fine winter's day] 

Yet none of these factors rates a mention. Nothing does. Rather we’re being pounded by heavy horizontal rain and blown off our feet by gale force winds. Communication is brief and shouted at close range, and just moving forward is a solid effort.

I should have seen the signs. First there was our local barometer, that sure predictor of foul weather that is Hobart’s Constitution Dock. If the fishing boats are all tied up in there, you can bet there’s unfavourable weather on its way across the state. That or it’s Christmas.

But being preoccupied with three weeks of full-time grandparenting, in between frantic food preparation for the walk, I’ve failed to notice the number of boats in the docks. So we’re already at Cradle Mountain by the time I read some cautionary weather words from a facebook friend. “Actually its gonna go easterly with a vengeance, according to my fisherman brother”.

[The offending weather map] 

Armed only with the weather bureau’s forecast map, with its two conjoined lows over Bass Strait and talk of “up to 30mm of rain” on Sunday, our attitude has been “how wet could it be?” During Saturday night, tucked up in a cabin at Waldheim, we start to have that question answered. It rains heavily all night, so heavily that even the 50 metre dash from the cabin to the toilet soaks us. There’s wind too, ‘though nothing too frightening.

So on Sunday morning the four of us set off. It’s raining steadily, and by the time we’re climbing past Crater Falls, the water flow is thunderous. As we ascend beyond Crater Lake, the wind is strong enough to make waves on the lake, and it’s buffeting us as we clamber up Marions Lookout. At least it’s coming from the north-east, making our ascent somewhat wind assisted.

[A bit of water: Crater Falls] 

That silver lining disappears as we top out. On the open plateau walking a straight line becomes impossible. At times the wind picks us up and deposits us where we hadn’t meant to go. The rain seeks out any exposed skin, stings our faces, wheedles its way through our waterproofs, into our boots. It doesn’t stop with us. Any surface, any track that isn’t boardwalk, is fast becoming a creek. We invoke Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

We hasten as best we can towards the emergency shelter at Kitchen Hut. There at least we’ll be out of the wind and rain, and able to talk. But shelter turns out to be a relative thing even inside the tiny hut. The wind and rain are forcing their way under the door and through the vent above the window. We have an uncomfortable 10 minute break; grab something to eat and drink; chat about the weather (what else!)

My older brother Ian is a relative newcomer to overnight walking. This is proving to be a baptism of … well, not so much fire, as wind and water. He’s looking none too happy, not that any of us is exactly thrilled with what we’re facing. At least it’s not cold. Larry tells us it’s 7.7 degrees C.

[Unhappy campers shelter in Kitchen Hut] 

Just a little refreshed, we determine to push on to Waterfall Valley, sure that it will be more sheltered – once we get there. But when we open Kitchen Hut’s door, it’s like facing a hurricane. Our resolve immediately wobbles. That’s compounded when, ascending the slope that leads from Kitchen Hut to Cradle Cirque, the track becomes a full-blown creek. Ian let’s out an incredulous “What??”. There’s probably more … along the lines of “We’re going up there??” … but the wind tears away any other words. Mick looks at me with an expression that says "If this is what it takes to get to the hut, this is what we’ll have to go through."

The wind and rain don’t let up for a minute, and this roughest part of the track – even on fine days – becomes a watery steeplechase. Every windswept step is a lottery. Will our foot land on that rock, or will we be blown into the water or into a bush? How long before we twist an ankle or slip into a mire? It’s frightening, exhausting work.

Larry and I had earlier talked about the concept of packrafting. Now I'm seriously thinking that someone could packraft down this track more easily than we’re walking it. If the track is a creek, then every creek is a torrent, and some bridges have water flowing over them. We push on until Larry suggests we stop for a conference. Clearly my brother is unnerved by the conditions, and we talk through the options. Given that the walk back to Cradle would be straight into this gale, we decide to continue on to Waterfall Valley as fast as we can. We’ll be able to assess our situation better when we’re safe and dry.

After much muttering, stumbling struggle, we make the turnoff that leads from Bluff Cirque towards Waterfall Valley. In a preview of the valley, the edge of the cirque is festooned with miniature waterfalls. It's more akin to Fiordland than Tasmania. Some of the falls are being blown back into the air, defying both their name and gravity due to the strong winds.

[Waterfall Valley Hut with an impromptu creek beneath it] 

Finally we make the end of the plateau and start descending towards Waterfall Valley. The tempest around us seems perfect for invoking yet another romantic poem. This time it’s Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade”.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred

We hope we’re as wrong about the death part as we are about the number. And so it proves when the four of us finally pull open the very welcoming door to Waterfall Valley Hut. From the dim interior, a dozen surprised faces turn towards us, looking like they’re seeing madmen. They’re not completely wrong.

Rocking Cradle 3: Bone Clocks

Lying down above Crater Lake, I am wishing that time would stand still. Of course it’s a forlorn hope. Bushwalking might have some ability to bend the fundamental laws of time and space, but in the end even the bushwalker must admit to being just another member of the human race.

[Cradle Mt from Marions Lookout: Who would want to leave this?] 

I’ve been reminded of this all day by the clicking of my left knee, ticking with every stride like a bone clock*. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a little disconcerting, not only because it tells me all isn’t well with that part of me, but also because it’s a reminder of my mortality per se.

In this mood, I have the sudden desire to prolong my exposure to the plateau’s white wonders; to turn around and go further into the mountains; even to walk the whole 65km Overland Track. But winter days are short, and nights at 1400m in snow, without a tent and food and a sleeping bag, are not advisable. A keenness to prolong my mortal life wins out.

[Merran tests an ice-covered pool near Cradle Mt] 

To break the spell I simply stand up, and suggest it’s time we headed down. Yet even then we make as if we’re just wandering over to Marions Lookout; simply taking a few more photos; only moseying down a little to “see what we can see”, even though we all know we’re on our way back to the hut.

Fortunately the steepness of the descent focusses the mind, and the stunning views of Crater Lake keep the beauty levels topped up. Still, we’re back on the “main drag” now. It’s both part of the Overland Track, and one of the key day walks for short-term visitors. We start meeting other walkers for the first time all day, and the contrast is jarring.

[On the descent from Marions Lookout to Crater Lake] 

Some are dressed for a stroll through an urban picnic ground. One young woman is crunching through snow in high heels, with matching fashion dress and hand bag. More sensibly, one of her companions is wearing a day-pack. But as he approaches we hear loud music coming from a device hidden in the pack.

Yes, we’re undoubtedly in the transition zone between the wild and the tamed. But we’re in the mood to keep celebrating the wild. We slide and shoe-ski down some of the snowier sections, sharing a laugh with groups struggling their slippery way up the same icy sections.

[Buttongrass through snow near Ronny Creek] 

We keep up the celebratory mood back in the hut, with shared food and wine, and animated discussion about everything from pilgrimages to cuisine. And when Tim reads us some of Michael Ende’s rather chilling novel “Momo”, we exchange thoughts on how we use time. We wonder at the metaphors we use, such as spending time and saving time.

I read later that Norway’s then Prime Minister, Thorbjorn Jagland, referred to “Momo” in his 1997 New Year’s speech. He reflected that to many people, time had become the scarcest resource of all. In the story, he reminds us:

People are persuaded to save time by eliminating everything not useful. One of the people … cuts out his girlfriend, sells his pet, stops singing, reading and visiting friends. In this way he will supposedly become an efficient man getting something out of life. What is strange is that he is in a greater hurry than ever. The saved-up time disappears - and he never sees it again.

We drift off to sleep with deep timey-wimey thoughts going through our minds. And in the morning, it seems we’re unhurried as we prepare to go our separate ways. Tim and Merran have more time to spend on the plateau, while Lynne and I will have some time with our daughter and family in Launceston.

[Tim and Merran departing the hut] 

Whatever we’re planning, our stay at Cradle has been a good reminder that hurrying won’t slow the passage of time. Yet somehow being deliberate, being present to others and to the moments we share with them, noticing and celebrating wonder, opening ourselves to silliness and the wasting of time: those ARE things that seem capable of changing the flow of time.

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* The title of David Mitchell’s 2014 novel “The Bone Clocks”, derives from the contemptuous name given to mere mortals by some of the book’s immortal characters.